


Mine de Rien

by Acai



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Booker Ronan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fashion Designer Blue, Fluff, Getting Together, Hook-Up, Hookups to Coworkers to Friends to Lovers and so Forth, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Makeup Artist Gansey, Model AU, Model Adam, Model Henry, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Romantic Fluff, Ronan Lynch's Hand Kink, it's a hookup to surprise coworkers fic, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai/pseuds/Acai
Summary: “Hey-o. New guy,” Blue appraised him with a satisfied grin. "Solid nine, even for a model."Standing in the doorway, Hook-Up Adam looked just as overtly shocked to see him as Ronan felt.“God,” Ronan cursed. “Fuck.”+An AU in which Adam is an LA model, Ronan is his agent, and they're not quite the prime example of a professional work environment.
Relationships: Richard Gansey III/Blue Sargent, Ronan Lynch & Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 39
Kudos: 296





	1. Ronan

**Author's Note:**

> A big ol' thank you to selflessambition8 (Ao3 and Tumblr) for beta reading this first chapter for me! 
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Vireau_

Ronan knew for a fact that there was no shortage of clubs in the LA area, and that a decent amount of them were actually tolerable; which only made it all the more curious that his company had picked the _worst one of all_ for their event. If he hadn’t promised Gansey he’d show, Ronan would have already started home.

The event was far from a rarity. Their company would have nights out after most big wins; successful fashion weeks, large clients, growth opportunities. The models tended to show in the biggest quantities, and bookers and agents would hover not too far off, doing their best to stop their models from going too hard on a work night.

Ronan, personally, didn’t care. The models would do whatever the models were going to do, and as long as they didn’t look plastered or dead the next day, it wasn’t his business. He’d go, for the alcohol and for Gansey, but he would be in and out again in less than an hour. 

The door to the club was plastered with cliché platitudes and an unfortunate lack of original thought. _It’s always happy hour somewhere!_ and _In beer, there is freedom_ had him wondering how long he’d actually be required to stay. Were there societal regulations on how long one guy had to stay at a work function held at a crappy bar? 

Ronan flashed his work ID at the bouncer to get in, and it took less than a minute to spot Gansey. 

When they’d been kids, Ronan had occasionally wondered if Gansey would eventually settle down and turn boring and responsible. Maybe he’d go into politics like his parents, and meet a nice girl, and invite Ronan to bland Thanksgivings with no seasoning. 

Instead, Gansey had gone to college for cosmetology and met Blue, a ferocious thing majoring in fashion. Although she hadn’t been able to free him of his terrible fashion sense, she kept him far from boring--and she always made it easy to find them. 

They’d been together since their first year of college, and had gotten engaged over the summer. They had yet to pick even a broad concept for the date, but didn’t seem bothered by it. Ronan had a feeling they were going to stay young and wild for a few more years before settling down into any kind of routine or resemblance of a married life; one of those _long engagement_ couples. 

The Gansey-Sargent look of the night leaned heavily on neon, and Blue sent a sharp grin in his direction as he claimed the spot next to them.

“This bar?” Ronan greeted them. “Is absolute garbage.” 

“I like it,” Gansey tipped a neon green concoction in his direction. “Blue bet me money that you wouldn’t come.”

Ronan sent a look in her direction as she innocently flagged down a bartender. “I told you I would.”

His only response was a wide grin and a head tilt toward the dance floor. “Lucky that you did, because they have a drink called the _Ballista,_ and I thought of you.” At Ronan’s look, he clarified, “a Ballista is very _you._ ”

“I’m touched,” Ronan’s tone was dry. Gansey only gave him another grin and nursed at his cocktail. He shifted his gaze back to Blue, and the weak bar lights managed to catch the glitter on his eyelids enough to make it minutely noticeable. Ronan may have assumed it was a leftover tester from work that day if Blue hadn’t been sitting next to him in an equally shiny boa. Instead, he was forced to acknowledge the fact that this was a fully intentional match, and that they were probably absolutely giddy about it. 

“Hey--,” Blue smacked her palm onto the counter in front of Ronan. “You’re getting that new guy in tomorrow, right? Where’s he at on a scale of ten?” 

Ronan shrugged, eyes straying to the dance floor, where he was met with the unfortunate sight of one of his managers mid-grind. “I’ll know tomorrow. They haven’t sent his portfolio over yet, because _why_ on God’s green fuckin’ _Earth_ would they do that?”

“Mysterious, hot stranger,” Blue commented wisely, and ignored both Gansey’s affronted noise and Ronan’s dripping sarcasm. “Where’s he coming in from?” 

“Virginia. Henry’s worked with him before and liked him, so he’s either great at his job or horrifically talkative.” Ronan made a half-hearted, vague motion with one hand. “They poached him from one of the smaller companies, so he can’t be _that_ bad. Still would’ve been fuckin’ appreciated if they’d given me some prep time beforehand.” 

Blue made a thoughtful noise from behind her Pink Lady, which either meant she had an insightful comment to add, or that she’d seen something interesting on the dance floor. 

“Be less irritated,” she advised. “It’s not every day that you get free alcohol.” 

“Just enjoy your night. You can worry about that tomorrow. Plus, this is mine and Blue’s song,” Gansey translated, already being hauled up from his spot. He gave Ronan a questioning look, but Ronan waved them off instead. 

“I’m not dancing with you clowns,” he said, and only succeeded in making Gansey grin again. They left to go embarrass themselves in front of their co-workers for T-Pain’s sake, and Ronan only rolled his eyes and pulled their drinks over. 

Ronan’s default setting for music was _loud,_ but there was something about loud music in a club full of people he wasn’t interested in that was deeply unappealing. He settled for pulling out his phone, keeping half an eye on the drinks while the rest of his brain sated itself scrolling through articles.

He got halfway through a quiz on which planet he was before he was interrupted. 

“Two drinks? Rough night, then?” 

Ronan looked up with his most unenthused expression to find the culprit giving him the same look right back. 

He was young, Ronan’s age at most, and had a curl falling in front of his eyes. It should’ve been illegal. He looked like he could’ve been dusty, with less effort, and Ronan honestly couldn’t tell if his tan was natural or fake. It was honest-to-God annoying how bright his eyes were. 

“Not mine,” Ronan replied smoothly, going for _woefully unbothered._

The guy hummed, claiming the seat next to Ronan. “That’s what they all say.” 

Ronan rolled his eyes. “Two for me and none for you. It’s a sad ratio.” 

He looked amused, which wasn’t the intended outcome, but wasn’t terrible, either. “Adam.”

“What?” 

“My name?” Adam raised an eyebrow. 

“Right,” Ronan muttered, searching out Blue and Gansey on the floor for an excuse to do something with his eyes. “Ronan.” 

“That sounds Irish,” Adam flagged over a bartender and ordered a Coke.

“That’s because it is,” Ronan stole Gansey’s cocktail for a sip. “You came to a club for a Coke? I’ve got some great news for you, man. They sell those everywhere.” 

“Something like that,” Adam answered, with a polite thank you to the bartender. “By that logic, they sell horrible green alcohol in plenty of places, too.” 

“Hm,” Ronan answered, unimpressed. 

Adam went quiet after that, leaving Ronan to his Buzzfeed planets quiz (Pluto, thank you very much), and seemed content to just sit next to Ronan and look hot and watch the dance floor without saying anything. 

There were more coworkers present, now. Most had gone home and changed before heading out, and Ronan probably could have gone and talked to one of them. He probably _should_ have gone and chatted one of them up, probably should have worked on building up some stronger workplace connections, but he’d never been much of a people person. Already, he was waiting for Gansey to return so he could be polite and say goodbye before heading out. Really, the things he did for the sake of politeness--

“Do you dance?” 

“What?” Ronan asked smartly, for the second time. He looked to Adam, whose gaze was planted on the dance floor in front of them. By some stroke of mercy, he was looking at a random couple, and not at Gansey and Blue’s slightly-tipsy dancefloor tragedy. 

“Do you dance?” Adam repeated, and Ronan may have seen it as an invitation if Adam had seemed more interested in the question. 

“No,” he answered, and stole another sip of Gansey’s drink. “I don’t.” 

Adam hummed in agreement, pulling out his own phone. 

“You don’t drink, you don’t dance--were you _aware_ you were walking into a club? Did you come in here, and you were too embarrassed to admit you went in the wrong building, so you’re staying until it’s been an appropriate amount of time?” 

This, at least, earned a slightly amused look. “I don’t think anyone would have noticed.”

“You say that, but here you are. Playing at intention nonetheless,” Ronan’s voice dripped with faux sympathy. “Honestly, you’ve ordered a drink, you’ve chatted some. I think you’re free to go, now.” 

“Why are _you_ here?” 

“Biding my time until it’s socially acceptable to leave,” Ronan debated for a moment whether it’d be any good if he dumped the remainder of Gansey’s drink into the Pink Lady. “Then I’m out of here.”

A model from Ronan’s agency was having a loud argument with an unnamed boyfriend by the bathrooms. From experience, Ronan knew they’d all pretend not to have overheard it tomorrow. 

“How much longer do you think that’ll take? Hours? Days?”

“Feels like _years._ ” Ronan sighed, leaning back against the counter. He was aware that he was being dramatic, but had no intention of stopping. “Seriously--does time just stop in this place?” 

He huffed loudly, and Adam tipped his Coke in Ronan’s direction in an _I feel that_ gesture. 

“Realm of suffering,” Adam drawled back, and there was condensation left on his long fingers from his glass that Ronan had to peel his eyes away from. 

There was an accent there that Ronan couldn’t quite place his finger on. Southern, maybe. Not slow enough to be Georgia, but somewhere above the belt, possibly. It didn’t technically matter _where_ specifically it was from. 

A _Namaste_ sign buzzed back to life, and Adam let out an unenthused, _“hurrah.”_

“What are you doing after this?” Ronan asked, before he could think about it or swallow down the question. Instead, he glued his eyes back to the floor and held back a long sigh. 

In his peripheral, he could see Adam twisting in his direction with a raised eyebrow.

“Like--?” he started, and then stopped, mulling it over for an uncomfortably long second. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Try and contain your enthusiasm,” Ronan huffed, thoroughly embarrassed and diligently not showing it. 

“Oh, no,” Adam turned to face him fully, and Ronan gave him a sidelong look back. “No, I’m interested, I just--,” he paused, and Ronan could see the last few cogs turning the question over in his head. “Yes. Yeah, alright.” 

Ronan gave him a look. “You just?”

“I’m interested,” Adam repeated, far less hasty this time, with a hint of a smirk. “Seriously.” 

Ronan glanced at Adam’s Coke. “Is that all you want?” 

Adam made a small, affirmative noise. “Yours? Mine?” 

“Mine,” Ronan slid the drinks to the back of the counter to be collected. “I just need to tell someone I’m leaving.”

Adam dug his wallet out of his pockets. “I can pay and meet you outside?” 

Ronan tipped a hand in Adam’s direction, a halfhearted _yes,_ and went to slide his way into the mass of people on the floor. Gansey was characteristically easy to find, and by now had come to wear Blue’s boa around his shoulders. He beamed at Ronan as he approached. 

“So he _does_ dance!” 

“He does not,” Ronan rolled his eyes. “He’s leaving for the night, and is so polite he came to tell you himself.” 

_“Leaving?”_ Blue tsked. “It’s been an hour.” 

“A whole hour of watching you two publicly embarrass yourselves,” Ronan agreed. “I’m good to go.”

“Text me when you get home,” Gansey reminded him.

Ronan held up a fist for Gansey to bump. “I will, mother hen.” 

He bumped Blue’s fist next, giving them a nod goodbye before wriggling his way free of the mass of bodies. 

Outside the door, Adam was waiting. He was texting someone on his phone, one foot propped up on the bricking behind his back, but he shut his phone off and slid it into his pocket as Ronan emerged. 

“All good?” He asked. 

“Onward,” Ronan confirmed, with only a hint of sarcasm. 

They walked, Ronan’s hands tucked into his pockets, down the block. Adam seemed contented to glance around and take in the buildings, eyes lingering on the things they walked by. That, and the drawl, were enough for Ronan to figure out that he wasn’t _from_ LA. The fact that he seemed miffed by the beeping crossing lights was enough to confirm the fact. 

“Tourist, then?” 

Adam huffed out a laugh. “No, not a tourist. I just moved here a couple days ago. I’ve mostly been unpacking--not a lot of time for sightseeing. Or meeting people.” 

“The club?” Ronan asked, piecing this together as well.

“The club,” Adam confirmed, sounding only a tad exasperated at himself. “It’s not really my scene, otherwise.”

“You ordered a Coke,” Ronan agreed dryly. “And then just left it sitting _out._ Gotta cover that shit here, man.” 

Adam gave him a displeased look. “That’s always a great thing to hear about a city you just moved to.” 

“That’s a _basic_ club rule,” Ronan argued, unbothered. 

Adam made a vague gesture, which Ronan translated to _I don’t have a comeback to that, you’re so right, Ronan, I never should have doubted you._ “You’re from here, then?”

“East Coast, actually. Moved here for work.” 

This drew an interested noise from Adam. “I’m from around there. It’s different here. Hotter.” 

“You moved to California. I hope you aren’t actually surprised.” 

Adam huffed. “I’m not surprised. It was an observation.” 

Ronan jutted a thumb to his apartment building before Adam could walk past it. “You’re going to pass out from shock when Summer comes. It gets--and imagine this--hotter then.” 

Ronan jabbed a finger onto the button for the elevator. 

“I would never, ever have guessed. I’m so glad you told me, because I don’t know how I would have handled the shock.”

The doors pinged open, and Ronan led Adam in with a finger on the small of his back.

“It’s a different kind of heat, though, is the thing. I always wondered how people here wore hoodies in the summer, but I get it now, I think,” Adam continued. The doors closed behind them, and they started upward. “I mean, I’d still be hot as hell. But less sweaty, and I think that counts for something.”

“Adam,” 

“It got hot back home, but only really in the summer; and then it gets pretty cold, come winter. It did snow there--it doesn’t snow here, usually, but it does sometimes, I’ve heard.”

“Adam,” Ronan said again.

Adam looked his way, something overwhelmed in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m nervous.” 

“In a bad way?”

“No,” Adam met his eyes this time. “No, not in a bad way. Just kiss me?”

Ronan obliged.

He’d planted a hand on the side of Adam’s neck, and he managed to think, _soft lips,_ before Adam’s arm looped over his shoulder and his fingers came to rest at the tip of Ronan’s spine. He leaned into the kiss, and Adam’s mouth parted open. Ronan’s hand had found its way into Adam’s hair, fingers twisting into the roots, and Adam made a small noise. 

The elevator stopped, and they untangled quickly enough that they weren’t tonguing it out by the time the doors slid open. There was nobody there in the entranceway, but they both were flustered anyway. 

Ronan guided them down the hall to his door. They stood in the doorway long enough for Ronan to lock the door, and then Adam had him by his belt loops with his back up against the wall. They were kissing again, one of Ronan’s hands on Adam’s cheekbone, and breathing hard into each other already.

Their hands were fumbling now, messing up their clothes as shirts came untucked. Ronan slid a hand up Adam’s shirt, palm splayed flat against his chest. Adam dragged his teeth over Ronan’s bottom lip, prying his mouth away to settle it at Ronan’s neck, nipping at the skin below Ronan’s ear and making Ronan hiss out a breath.

“Couch or bed?” Ronan asked, sliding a hand across the skin of Adam’s chest. “Couch is closer--bed is bigger.” 

“Bed,” Adam mumbled, and drew away long enough for them to find their way to Ronan’s bedroom; Ronan on his back, Adam with a knee on both sides of him. Ronan could feel the way Adam ground down on him, already half hard. They were kissing again, less slow than the elevator; it was messy, more urgent than before, even though they had all night. 

They broke apart long enough for their shirts to come off, first fumbling together to drag off Adam’s, and then Ronan’s. The shirts found discarded spots on the floor. They took another pause from the undressing for Adam to mouth at Ronan’s neck again, and _Jesus Christ._ Ronan didn’t doubt that there would be a mark there tomorrow, and he was going to have to find a way to cover it before meeting his new client, and--

And that was suddenly unimportant, because fingers had found their way to the button of his pants, and yes, those needed to come off _now._

The pants came off, and somehow Adam’s came to be off, too, somewhere in the middle of another bout of kissing. Adam’s hands ran up Ronan’s sides, and Ronan shivered and spat out a curse and tugged Adam closer by the waistband of his boxers. 

Ronan’s hands came up to trail along Adam’s sternum and downward once more. 

The boxers came off.

Adam kissed him into the bed, straddling his hips, and Ronan dragged a hand down his spine and felt him shiver at the contact. 

Adam’s slender fingers trailed Ronan's chest all the way down, and Ronan let out a short huff at his smooth pace as he worked Ronan. It only took a heartbeat for Adam’s mouth to replace his fingers, _sinfully_ better, and Ronan cursed loudly as Adam teased him with a gentle scrape of his teeth.

Ronan’s fingers trailed down Adam’s spine and dipped further, opening Adam up with toying fingers while Adam’s mouth worked him, and it felt like way too fucking long before Adam was letting out a sharp breath and Ronan was shifting to stretch and open his bedside drawer for a bottle of lube and a condom. 

The lube, sharply cold against Ronan’s fingers, was warmed to the best of Ronan’s abilities before he returned to his prior task, drinking up the way it made Adam breathe heavy enough for him to feel the hot breath on his chest. 

Adam lost his patience sooner rather than later, plucking up the condom and setting to work rolling it onto Ronan. 

It should really have been illegal how good Adam felt as he let himself adjust and slowly sank himself down. 

“Fuck,” Adam hissed, and rolled his hips experimentally; a move that had both of them tipping their heads back and groaning. 

Ronan took over, slowly until he found a rhythm, and he was hyper-aware of all of their points of contact; Adam’s palms against his chest, his hands on Adam’s sides. 

At some point, Adam’s mouth found its way back to Ronan’s neck, nipping and sucking a trail down to his collarbone. He came with his face still in the space between his neck and shoulder, mouth and hot breath pressed to Ronan’s skin, and it wasn't hard for Ronan to follow suit. 

+

Gansey and Blue were hungover the next day, and very much trying not to show it. It wasn’t as though anybody was surprised, because they’d _all_ been present, and so there was a good amount of equally hungover men and women present at 8 A.M. sharp. 

Their floor was two below Ronan’s, but they’d somehow wormed their way up to the offices. 

“Sucks you left early,” Blue informed Ronan, sprawled in one of his chairs with her hair pulled into a sloppy bun and sunglasses perched on her shirt collar; the perfect picture of a hungover woman at work far too early in the morning. “They had some pretty decent music.” 

_“Pretty decent_ is exactly my standard of music, yes,” Ronan answered, in the middle of trying to pull together his model portfolios before his new model showed up today. 

Blue tsked. “I’m sure you had much more fun sitting at home, watching garbo T.V. on your couch.” 

Ronan shot her a look, and she gave him a grin in exchange. Gansey pointed at the portfolio Ronan was rummaging through. 

“Why are you taking that out? I liked that shoot.” 

“I’m trying to make Henry’s portfolio worth respecting,” Ronan retorted, adding a last shot to his reject pile before deciding it was as good as it was going to get. “I’m not trying to scare the new guy off this quick.” 

“Speaking of,” Gansey interjected, settling his iced coffee on Ronan’s desk without a cupholder. He’d hear about that later. “If you want to get him started right off the bat, _Concept_ wants a younger guy for this next shoot. Blue and I got paired on it.” 

Blue held up a fist for him to bump, and Gansey obliged easily. 

“And let you terrorize him? I don’t think so. It’d be easier to get another guy in there for it.” 

_“But,”_ Blue argued, “it’s such a small shoot that nobody’s vying for it. Not when there’s so many bigger shoots right now. It’d be easy to get him in. It’d look good for both of you if you got him in so fast--just think about it?”

Ronan shrugged, waving a hand vaguely. “I’ll look into it. But you’re going to have to put a good word in for him.” 

Gansey grinned at him broadly, and a knock came at Ronan’s door. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he called, dropping Henry’s portfolio onto the stack with a heavy thunk.

There was a moment of hesitation before the door swung open. 

“Hey-o. New guy,” Blue appraised him with a satisfied grin. "Solid nine, even for a model." 

Standing in the doorway, Hook-Up Adam looked just as overtly shocked to see him as Ronan felt. 

“God,” Ronan cursed. “Fuck.” 


	2. Adam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot in there, but I’ve only been taking clients for a few months.”
> 
> Ronan pulled the portfolio open and skimmed the first page. He flicked through the pages with a lazy slowness, and the further he flipped without his face even twitching, the more nerves roiled in Adam’s stomach. Ronan made it a whole two-thirds of the way through before he snapped it shut once more.
> 
> This work Ronan was different than the laid-back Ronan who Adam had met first. He was stiffer here; deliberate. Adam couldn’t blame him. He figured he was stiffer now, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Madi @m_ercey for beta-ing! 
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Vireau_

_++_

_Mine de Rien_

_min də ʁjɛ̃_ _|| min -_ _deu-r - yuh_

_to be different than what’s expected; as if it’s nothing at all; casually_

_++_

The agency building was a maze. 

One would _think_ there’d be signage, or at least some thought to the placement of things. Instead, Adam had spent ten minutes trying to find a sign pointing him to the agent offices, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d resorted to asking for directions instead. It had taken a few tries, and a few strange looks, but eventually he’d worked out that the offices were on the third floor, and he was on the fifth. 

So he’d gone back down and spent another five minutes reading the nameplates on the doors until he found the one marked _‘Lynch’_ and knocked.

A voice drawled back, “yeah, whatever,” and Adam had taken a moment to consider whether that meant _yes, come in,_ or _go away, I don’t care._ He decided it was the former, because he didn’t just spend twenty minutes tracking the room down just to go home and call it a night. 

Inside, a woman gave him a shark grin. 

“Hey-o. New guy,” she gave him a once over. Her eyelids were bright purple, and Adam was pretty sure she’d sewn tulle onto the sleeves of her sweater. And--he could have been mistaken--there was a strong possibility her nails were the same shade of green as the man’s sitting next to her. “Solid nine, even for a model.”

Adam didn’t know who they were, but the room was not a room filled entirely with strangers; behind the desk, giving a loathing shove at a stack of binders, was Ronan. 

Ronan, who brought him home to his apartment the night before and hooked up with him in his _bedroom_ and Jesus, now they were in his office. 

He looked up. 

“God,” he cursed, face twisting into something complicated. “Fuck.”

++

Ronan had been the first piece of L.A. that Adam had honestly appreciated.

He was hot, and he had been talking to Adam, and he was the first person in L.A. who wasn’t a landlord or a neighbor so far who’d talked to Adam.

They’d gone back to his apartment. They’d kissed in the elevator, and in his living room, and they’d had sex in his bedroom, clothes strewn about and the two of them messy and connected. 

Adam had lingered, long enough for them to talk more, but not long enough for them to reveal the fine details of it all. 

( _I moved here to model,_ Adam may have said. _I’m a model agent,_ Ronan may have answered, and they may have put the pieces together.)

But then Adam had thought, _this isn’t business,_ and he’d remembered that he didn’t move to L.A. to hookup and have fun; he’d moved across the country to be _serious,_ to make _money,_ to be able to go to _college,_ and then he’d felt too foreign and guilty to keep lingering. 

It’d been clear on Ronan’s face that he was miffed about the sudden change in attitude, but he didn’t say anything to make it weirder than it already was. Adam had dressed quickly and made some poor excuse about leaving early, something about starting at his new job the next day and not wanting to be out late.

Adam had gone home to an apartment that felt unfamiliar and empty and new. He unpacked until he got bored of it, and after he gave up, he sat down on the kitchen floor with his laptop and reread the emails he’d been sent about the next day.

He had come from an agency in Virginia. It had been small, and not well known by far, but there’d been money in the game. He’d never set out to become a model, but the offer had come while he was in his senior year in high school.

He’d spent more than enough time imagining what he’d do once he graduated high school. Applying to college, getting into college, getting a job right out of college. Adam had spent time looking into colleges. He’d _applied_ to them. But colleges had cost money, and scholarships hadn’t been enough to cover it. 

There was a piece of Adam that still felt like it wasn’t quite real. 

He’d spent so long imagining it: graduate high school, go to college. Get a degree. _Be_ something. Prove them wrong.

Instead, there’d been no money. It felt like all Adam ever did was work, but somehow, there was never any money. Not enough money to eat, not enough money for gas--not enough money for college. He hadn’t had enough for college, and the modeling offer had promised funds. 

_I’ll do this,_ he told himself, _and then I’ll go to college._

The offer had led to an offer, had led to an offer, had led to an offer at an agency. He’d accepted, because it meant extra money on the side. Then Adam had graduated, applied to a firm, and hadn’t heard back. So, Adam kept modeling. And he kept applying, and kept modeling, and kept applying some more. A year later, Adam had received a poach offer from an L.A. agency. His agent (a tired, stingy woman) had advised him against accepting. 

Adam’s Virginia agency dealt in small deals; local businesses, college projects, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. For a year, Adam told himself, _this is temporary. This is just until I get enough to go to college._

The L.A. agency was big. Adam Googled them, had looked into their models and their clients, and it was hard to say no to what he found. Their models went to New York Fashion Week. Their clients were runways and _MAC_ and _Shiseido_ websites. There was, pretty undeniably, money in being an L.A. model. There was no money in being a Virginia model who couldn’t find a job at a firm.

The pros were, of course, the money. The exposure would be good, and it would mean bigger opportunities. Adam may not have planned to stay in modeling forever, but he _enjoyed_ it. It couldn’t hurt to spend another year taking advantage of new opportunities before finding a firm. It would be an extra year to build up his resumé. And--

And it would mean leaving Virginia. 

Adam had been in Virginia since he was born. He’d worked endlessly for years there for the chance to go to college, to go to a _good_ college. When that hadn’t happened, it’d felt like a death sentence to stay in Henrietta forever. Los Angeles was on an entirely different coast; a seventeen-hour drive away. 

He said yes.

Two months later, Adam landed in L.A. for a new job. 

++

Although they did their best to act as though it wasn’t weird, there was undeniably something tense and odd between them. 

They didn’t talk about it. 

The two standersby had dismissed themselves, jostling each other impishly on the way out, and then Adam had been left alone with Ronan to assume his place sitting across from Ronan with only the desk in between them. 

Ronan made a vague and unaffected wave in the direction of the door. 

“Gansey and Blue,” he told Adam. “They work in fashion and makeup. They’re horrible.”

Adam hummed in reply, and they dawdled in the rigid pause between them for a moment before he placed his portfolio on the desk. 

He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot in there, but I’ve only been taking clients for a few months.”

Ronan pulled the portfolio open and skimmed the first page. He flicked through the pages with a lazy slowness, and the further he flipped without his face even twitching, the more nerves roiled in Adam’s stomach. Ronan made it a whole two-thirds of the way through before he snapped it shut once more.

This work Ronan was different than the laid-back Ronan who Adam had met first. He was stiffer here; deliberate. Adam couldn’t blame him. He figured he was stiffer now, too.

“We’ll take new ones when we get your walk,” Ronan traded with Adam, passing him a thicker binder. “Cheng’s been one of mine for two years. He hasn’t got any shame, so he gets some unique clients, but it helps his portfolio.” 

Adam moved to flip the portfolio open, but Ronan batted his fingers away.

“Take it with you and look at it on your own time.” 

Adam’s bristling went ignored. Ronan stood up, heading to the door with an assumption that Adam would follow. He did. They went down the hallway and to the elevator, and Adam was struck with the recollection of the last time they’d been alone in an elevator together: Ronan’s fingers twisting and knotting in Adam’s hair, tangled up together. 

He wondered if Ronan was remembering the same thing. A look at his face revealed nothing; Ronan’s expression was still flat and unaffected. It was different than it had been at the club. The Ronan who Adam had gone home with had calmed him down, had held a conversation with him on the walk to the apartment. 

If it hadn’t been for Ronan’s expression when Adam first walked in, then Adam would have reckoned Ronan had forgotten the entire night. 

On the third floor, Ronan led him through a set of heavy doors. The room they walked into was dark, except for the lit set in the middle of it all; there, a photographer was nearly plastered to the floor, trying to catch a shot of a tall male model who was sprawled across a prop couch. 

He was slouched, but managed to make it look attractive and unaffected rather than lazy. His fist propped up his chin, and he shot a small pout toward the photographer before shifting into a new pose. 

“Noah,” Ronan informed him. When Adam tore his gaze away toward the other man, he found the agent with a foot propped up on the wall behind him. His eyes were on the set. “He’s been here for three, four years now. The industry loves the stretched out, hungry look, and Noah’s got it.” 

The photographer straightened, waving over the crew for an adjustment. Interns scattered, fixing lights and straightening Noah’s hair and shirt. 

It wasn’t immediately visible to Adam, but as one of the stylists brushed up Noah’s hair from out of his eyes, a sloping birthmark became present on Noah’s cheek. 

Before seeing Noah, Adam may have assumed that such a large mark across someone’s face may have spoiled any shots at modeling--or at least would have required a fair bit of coverage. Somehow, though, the mark across Noah’s cheek meshed into his look and worked in his favor. If anything, it would make him more recognizable in the field; mixed with his confidence and looks, Adam could understand quickly how Noah was still going strong in his career. 

As if he could feel their stares, Noah’s gaze snapped up in their direction. His face broke out in a wide, friendly grin as he caught sight of Ronan. 

Noah reached up to run a hand through his hair, but was batted away by an annoyed stylist. He settled instead for a cheery wave at the pair watching his shoot, and then was quickly ushered back to his spot on the set. 

His affable grin stayed plastered in place as he returned to his spot on the couch. This time, his long legs spread and he leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees and chin resting on his clasped fists. 

The photographer shifted back to work, and Noah’s cheeky expression slipped off so quickly, it was debatable if it were ever there at all. In an instant, his expression was back to blasé and loose. 

“He’s good,” Adam noted, watching him shift between poses like it was choreography.

Ronan snorted. “He’s better than good. Czerny’s booked solid for the next three months.”

Adam glanced his way with an impressed raise of an eyebrow to find Ronan already watching him. They held each other’s gazes for a moment too long, and Adam was reminded again of the man who he’d spent the night before with.

The way Ronan yanked his gaze away made Adam wonder if he’d been thinking the same thing.

Ronan nudged his shoulder, turning to slip quietly back out of the room. Adam lingered for a moment, watching as Noah slid easily from pose to pose, before trailing reluctantly after Ronan. 

“Your first shoot is tomorrow,” Ronan said, hands sliding into his pockets as he led Adam back through the hallway. “And we’ll get your location filming out of the way sometime this week.”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “Tomorrow?”

Ronan gave him a flat look. “You’re coming here from a small company, and your portfolio could be better. The sooner you start getting big clients, the better. Tomorrow you have a shoot with _VEX,_ and we’re going to add locations into your files. _Then,_ maybe, you can start getting some real clients.” 

Adam answered with a displeased huff; half annoyed by the sudden appearance of Ronan’s rough exterior, half annoyed by the fact that Ronan was right. 

The hallway opened up into a lounge, scattered vaguely with models. Some worked on laptops, and others sat together and talked. Several looked as though they’d just come from shoots, done up with makeup and hair still pulled up. 

A few glanced up as they entered, but none seemed interested beyond that much. They paused in the lounge so that Ronan could rummage through a cabinet of files that was settled in one of the corners. 

“Are any of these yours?” Adam asked, avoiding a gaze that came from an irritable-looking model who sat propped up on one of the couches. 

Ronan made an _mm_ noise that could have meant anything, then pried free a file from the drawer. He waved it unenthusiastically at Adam, but didn’t elaborate further on it. 

Ronan tipped his head to signal for Adam to keep following him and continued down the hall.

“How many models are here?” Adam asked. 

Ronan shrugged. “Dunno. A lot.”

“How many do you manage?”

“You,” Ronan tipped a hand in Adam’s direction, “are my fourth.” 

“Only four? You said you’ve been here for years.”

They returned to the elevator. Ronan propped his foot up against the wall the way that he had earlier as they’d watched Noah’s shoot. 

“I have other things to do in my freetime. Managers who take on too many models never have time for any of them, it waters down their work,” he answered. “Modeling isn’t a game of luck or quantity. If you don’t have that sorted out by now, then this gig isn’t for you.” 

“I’ve never been able to rely on luck,” Adam answered. The elevator doors pinged open, they moved to exit at the same time and their shoulders brushed together. Adam paused on instinct at the touch, but it allowed Ronan through first without an awkward shuffle. 

They were down on the first floor once again. Ronan handed Adam the Manila folder. 

“Your contracts,” he said. “Look them over, do whatever. Make sure you have them signed and in by tomorrow, or look for a new agency.” 

Adam held in a withering look at the snark, turning the folder open to peer at the first page. “Can I have your number? Or the office number? I reckon I’m going to have questions.”

“Reckon,” Ronan mimicked, as though the word baffled him, but made a _gimme_ gesture with his hand. “I can add my number in. I’ll probably be awake until ass o’clock, anyway.”

Adam fished through his pockets to draw out his phone, opening the contacts app and relinquishing it to Ronan. 

The other man let out a low whistle as he hit the plus on top. “Two whole contacts. Damn, Parrish, is it hard being so popular?” 

Adam glowered in response, waiting for Ronan to finish adding in his number so that he could snatch the phone back and stuff it back into his pockets.

When he’d moved, he’d bought a new phone and changed the number. Adam had changed his email and credit cards, too, which may have been overkill, but he didn’t entirely care. The thought of being able to get away, and then being dragged back by someone from before had gnawed violently at his chest until he’d cut everything he could figure out how to cut.

His landlord and his old agency had his number, and that was it.

“New phone,” was what Adam decided to tell Ronan. “I won’t text you past six.” 

“Ass o’clock, remember?” Ronan asked, already looking geared up to leave as he pressed the button for the elevator. He poked the Manila folder. “Sign those tonight, Parrish. We can’t start on shit until you do.”

Adam closed the folder, tucked it under his arm, and opened his mouth to answer. Instead, Ronan tapped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute and left Adam standing in the lobby.

/ / / 

The thing about Adam’s apartment was this: by definition, it was absolutely an apartment. 

It was the ideal size for a single dude who never had people over, but could potentially open the door to a delivery man or to grab a package, and whoever was at the door could peer inside and go, _yeah, this dude definitely lives in an apartment._

The place wasn’t going to win any awards, but it was at least twelve steps up from Adam’s last place, so it would do more than okay. 

Adam had lived in L.A. for what could technically be referred to as two weeks, but which he was fondly calling ‘a few days’. In that time, he’d left twice to go grocery shopping, and had spent the rest of the days making up excuses not to unpack. 

Currently, Adam had acquiesced to a bed, a couch, a table, and several boxes of take-out in the fridge. There was potentially also half of a Gatorade left, but he wouldn’t have been able to place a firm bet on it either way.

The rest of his things were compiled into ten boxes that sat stacked in his bedroom. His apartment in Virginia hadn’t even had a bedroom, just one big room with a few kitchen appliances and a bathroom. Even that had looked bare. 

Adam dropped the Manila folder and portfolio he’d been given onto the table. He sat with a huff, unplugging his laptop and pulling it closer to himself. 

The laptop, treacherous thing that it was, opened up to the Ivy League comparisons page that Adam had left open the night before. He shut the tab, feeling something close to satisfied as it went away. 

He made it through exactly two paragraphs of the contracts before he had to grab his phone, snapping a photo to send to Ronan.

**To: Ronan Lynch**

_Do I put you as booker or agent?_

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_agent. leave booker blank_

The rest of the contract pages were easier to muddle through, and so Adam tucked his phone away where it couldn’t distract him and set to work on them for the next stretch of hours. 

It got dark outside at some point, and Adam got up to stretch and switch on the kitchen light before it got too dark for him to see the papers that were in front of him. 

Adam took the break as an excuse to check his phone, dismissing different news app notifications and Twitter pings. Below them, there was a single text from Ronan.

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_meet @ mckinley tomorrow @8 for location shooting. doesnt matter what you wear, itll get changed._

**To: Ronan Lynch**

_Outfit change? How full of a shoot are we doing?_

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_full enough. ive seen how you dress, anyway, so wed be doing one either way_

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_the terror twins will figure out the look. your job is just to be there on time. can you manage that?_

**To: Ronan Lynch**

_I can probably manage that._

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_loving the enthusiasm here_

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_did you fill out the paperwork yet or am i going to have to find a whole other model_

**To: Ronan Lynch**

_I have two more pages._

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_brevity wont kill you. its not like anyones going to pore over it_

**From: Ronan Lynch**

_just put it back in the folder when youre done and bring it with you tomorrow. probably water too. this isnt a five star establishment. if you want a drink, thats your issue_

**To: Ronan Lynch**

_Noted._

Adam lingered with his phone for another few minutes, flicking through articles just in case Ronan decided to send another text. Until he’d started work at his Virginia agency, he hadn’t even owned a phone. There’d been nobody to text, and back then he’d still thought he would find a way to get to college. Adam hadn’t wanted the distraction that phones brought. 

When he’d decided that the conversation seemed to be finished, Adam wrapped up on the remaining paperwork, slapping down his signatures where the papers needed them, and then stuffed them all away. 

Adam settled the paperwork on the counter under his keys so there would be no way for him to forget them in the morning. He hesitated for a second before filling a water bottle, too, because most of him didn’t think that Ronan was joking. 

The second that Adam’s body registered that it had completed a task, he felt bone-deep exhaustion wash over him in a demand for sleep. It was easy enough for him to function throughout the day, but the second his brain flipped the _off_ switch, his body went down with it. 

So Adam turned off the lights, not keen on forgetting and wracking up a bill overnight, and slunk to his room to drag a set of shorts and a t-shirt from one of the stacked boxes. He climbed into bed, plugging his phone in and going to set an alarm.

On the lock screen, the green icon that popped up made Adam think for a moment that Ronan may have thought of another detail for the next day. Instead, he found two missed calls from a number that wasn’t programmed into Adam’s phone.

The paranoid side of Adam’s brain thought, _okay, that only took them a couple of days._ The rational side knew that it was a telemarketer, or a wrong number, or a promotion, or a bank scam. In all the time that he’d had a phone, he’d gotten twenty wrong numbers for every genuine call that he needed to answer. 

Still. The _504_ , Adam knew, was a Virginia area code, and it sent something unpleasant climbing up his spine and into his throat. But, he reasoned that if he didn’t answer, then it didn’t have to matter. It wasn’t as if somebody could come crawling through the phone just because he _had_ the number. 

He set his alarm for six the next day. A look at Google confirmed that the park was only twenty minutes away, but Adam had never been a morning person, and L.A. traffic had always thrown him for a loop when it came to the unpredictability of the timing. 

Adam cleared the notification for the missed call, turned his ringer all the way up, and fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought, and if you want more! Feel free to check me out on other social media to see more of what I create:
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Vireau_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for checking out this first chapter! Let me know what you thought, and if you want more! Feel free to check me out on other social media to see more of what I create:
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Vireau_


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